


The measure of the man

by abaddon (nothingbutfic)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Draco-centric, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 23:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12518812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutfic/pseuds/abaddon
Summary: Draco Malfoy has always wanted a simple life. But he never gets what he wants.





	The measure of the man

**Author's Note:**

> Multiple pairings, slash, het, occassional porn, an unfortunate guest appearance by Marcus Flint, and it ranges in canon from Philosopher's Stone to Half-Blood Prince. Thanks to Chad for the inspiration and Florahart for the beta.

  
When Draco Malfoy arrives back at Hogwarts in sixth year, and steps from the train, he does so with his head unbowed and a hollow heart. He does not catch up with his housemates to join in their banter; already he walks a little straighter, a little taller, a little more gravely, for his is a noble purpose and glorious mission all his own. Even the passageway of the Hogwarts Express seemed a little too confining for the likes of him.

Pansy had been waiting a little way along the train when he closes the compartment door with a solemn thud, and she’s always been waiting. Waiting for another chance to pet him, another chance to be with him, another date, another dance, another opportunity to remind him just how well she knows him and all his secrets and just how fond she is of him and just how much he needs her. She knows too many of his secrets, and although Pansy is highly unlikely to divulge a single one, Draco isn’t the boy he used to be.

He left that boy behind him in that compartment, along with the victory won and the goal of his childhood achieved – he isn’t quite sure what the man he’s becoming desires, but he doesn’t need Pansy to reassure his ego. He doesn’t need anyone, not anymore, and can simply look at her with enough power in his gaze to send her scurrying forward uncertainly. Draco wants to be alone – he wants to savour the moment, and attempt to understand it. In past years he might have needed to snarl or gesture or make a pithy comment, but for now – because of now – his glance is sufficient.

He sighs and rests against the side of the passageway for a moment before he starts walking again; he’s not like his classmates anymore, and he knows it and so will they. There’s a distance now, an isolation, a supreme honour to his coming sacrifice, an appreciable widening in his relations, for not only is he better (something he has always suspected), but there is a recognition of it, and it is a heavy burden he must bear, that adds solemnity to his visage and stiffness to his spine and draws his chin up, and if need be he can pontificate in his way until most of the term is over (and he probably will).

Draco’s reverie continues as he strides down the passageway. He is pure, he is potent, he will be glorious and assured and never found wanting-

“Hey, Malfoy,” comes a familiar voice from behind him as one of the doors slides open as he passes it by, and a firm hand slaps him on the arse and takes the opportunity for a quick grope.

Draco is caught between aghast shock and being oddly flattered, a shiver carrying up his spine, and he stops for a moment to allow himself the luxury of rubbing his forehead in frustration. His sober mood has been utterly _ruined_ , and he knows exactly by whom.

“Hello, Pucey,” he says, tightly, and glances over at the slightly older young man. “I hope you had a good trip up.”

“Oh, passable, passable,” Pucey grins at him. “You know what the rest of my year is like. They couldn’t manage a piss-up in a brewery. You always were more fun.” And just to emphasise the point, he takes another grope, and cocks his head a little to the side, eying Draco almost imploringly.

“Adrian,” Draco begins, “You can’t _do_ that anymore.”

Adrian nods, and takes his hand away. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. I heard…about things, from my father.” The Puceys are pureblood, and well connected, and not as wealthy as they used to be. But this has not made them any less proud, and Draco has always liked the family, or the idea of it; they are pureblood in a way that simply means old blood, and true blood – they have largely left themselves unconcerned with what they dismissively refer to as ‘politics’, and Adrian will probably be allowed to grow up, grow old and play professional Quidditch or whatever he wants as long as he manages to take an appropriate pureblood girl as a bride. Not exactly easy for either of them, considering Adrian is about as queer as Draco (and that’s saying something) but it’s been managed before, and Draco has no doubt about Adrian’s capacity for sheer deviousness.

Still, the Puceys dip their toes in the murky pond of society enough to remain connected, to know which way the wind is blowing, and although Draco is constantly surprised that there is someone out there who can say ‘my father’ without turning into an exercise in audible capitalisation, he appreciates the sentiment, for all that it just makes him feel the more alone.

“Nothing’s the same anymore,” he replies, and shrugs.

“It never is,” Adrian replies, and clasps him round the shoulders with one arm, pulling him in to ruffle his hair violently with his knuckles. “So, let me tell you about my holidays, and this gorgeous little shop boy in Diagon Alley I found…”

They emerge into the Scotland sunshine laughing; the more Adrian changes, Draco finds, the more he stays the same.

*

Adrian Pucey is in third year. He is tall (taller than Draco, which isn’t hard, as Draco is just a second year and barely has height enough for it), but Adrian already seems to have grown into his adolescence; there is no gawky teenager to be found here. He is graceful on a broom, and lithe off of one; with his slightly curly, slightly shaggy head of hair and ready twinkle in his eye, he instantly reminds Draco of one of those big dogs that seem to know just how to get you to scratch them, and are to be found with their tongues lolling in a grin all their own at any given moment.

Upon watching the team train a few times and acquainting himself with all the players, Draco remembers names, positions, dynamics, and he watches Marcus Flint drive them and drive them and drive them again through insult and threat and sheer contempt. He does this because Draco never goes into battle without some form of preparation, and he knows this will be a battle; Marcus Flint will make sure of that. If there is one word he can use to pin down Adrian Pucey (besides perhaps ‘young’, as he is the youngest currently on the team, or ‘joker’ as Pucey is most likely to defuse one of Flint’s simmering rages with a quip, although that usually earns him a quick cuff across the ear or a shouted insult from across the field), it is ‘satisfied’, just like one of those dogs. Adrian Pucey is _satisfied_ with his lot, and if he wants to, he’ll rest on his paws next to the fireplace and take up space and do it grinning, and dare you with one careful look to find anything wrong with it or him.

When Draco makes his way into the locker rooms after training on the first week of term, he is all too aware of how the banter and conversation dries up. He is, after all, just a little second year, robes pressed, tie straight, and they all know how his Mother sends him cakes every week and fusses over him in endless owls. They are Quidditch players, jocks, maybe even men, all sweaty and used to horseplay and coarse humour. Draco refuses to let himself quail as they look down at him, whisper to each other as he passes, poke each other in the ribs so they’ll notice him.

“Well, if it isn’t Daddy’s Golden Boy,” Marcus Flint sneers, seemingly out of nowhere, as he plants himself directly in Draco’s path, hands on his hips. He stinks of sweat and grass and leather, and there’s more than a little of the troll about the Flints, as Draco’s Father has pointed out several times and probably will do again.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” Draco pipes up, because he won’t be intimidated by anyone, especially not some half-breed. “The team plays very well.”

Flint snorts, and eyes some of the closer team members, watching as the chuckle runs round the room. “Oh, the kid thinks the team plays very well. How glad we are to have such expert commentary; don’t know how we did without it.” The chuckle gets meaner, as does the way Flint bends down from his waist to loom over Draco, who suddenly feels very small and very young and very scared.

When Flint continues, he talks very softly and very firmly. He doesn’t need to poke a finger in Draco’s chest, or scowl; his words and tone speak for themselves. “Too right we have a very good team, and I had to replace a very good seeker with some little brat who probably hasn’t done more than play for fun around that thing you call a mansion.”

“If he was that good, how come he couldn’t beat Potter?” Draco shoots off without thinking, and doesn’t flinch at the anger in Flint’s eyes.

“Potter had beginner’s luck, and Wood knows it. But now we have to make do with you just to get new brooms, cause you’re Daddy’s Little Bitch, aren’t you, Malfoy?”

Draco leans forward and gets right into Flint’s face, voice high and piping and boyish, certainly, but loud and clear and ringing with his own certainty. “If you’re the one who was that desperate to get the brooms, you seem more like my Father’s bitch than I am.”

There’s an instant where someone laughs, and Flint’s ugly visage contorts into something even uglier, dominated by shock and anger and hate, and the slap doesn’t exactly come out of nowhere, but it does leave Draco reeling, lip broken. He cradles it with a cuff of his sleeve, and glares up at the taller man, matching him hate for hate as Flint pushes him to one side and strides out of the locker rooms. The team follows, jostling and mocking Draco, and for all he can remember names and faces, there are too many bodies pressed close together, too many hands willing to shove at his shoulders and head, and Draco does his best to endure it.

Finally they leave, with husky laughter and the swinging of the door in their wake, and Draco sniffles just a bit and continue to glare at the one person remaining. Adrian Pucey hasn’t bothered changing yet except to remove his shin and wrist guards, and he leans down close to Draco to pull Draco’s handkerchief from his robe pocket and dab it delicately at the split lip. “Ignore Flint,” he shrugs. “He’s a real shit.”

“I think I got that, thank you,” Draco tells him, cold and arch and no-one’s victim, but when he tries to pull away, Adrian’s fingers tangle in his hair and keep him still as he tends to his wound.

“You don’t like trusting people, do you?” Adrian asks him, and manages not to make it sound condescending.

“I don’t like people who think I need taking care of,” Draco snaps back. “You’re not my _mother_.”

“Probably don’t look half as good in a dress,” observes Adrian quite casually, and Draco can’t help but giggle a little, before he sniffles again, and Adrian just looks at him until he answers.

“…I miss my mum,” Draco admits after a while, in a still, small voice.

Adrian balls up the now rather ratty handkerchief, and shoves it back in Draco’s pocket, wiping over his lip with a thumb. “She’d probably kiss it better.”

“She would!” Draco blurts out, and blushes as a result, because boys his age aren’t supposed to miss their mothers or still get taken care of, or get jittery when other boys are so close and considering the prospect of kissing him. Even from under his eyelashes he can see that Adrian is so near, and so close, and he is brushing his lips softly against the corner of Draco’s mouth before he tousles his hair with a hand and pushes himself back up.

“You’ve got the build for a good Seeker,” Adrian murmurs, looking him over almost critically, and Draco just keeps on blushing, and they both know it.

“Thank you,” he says, quite politely, and attempts to regain some kind of composure. “You’re a very good Chaser, you know.”

Adrian smirks. “Yeah, I am.”

*

Third year, and the low point is being forced to endure the school infirmary. Madam Pomfrey is a nightmare, all horrid concoctions and not any kind of bedside manner that Draco can see. She pokes him, prods him, makes him cough and wheeze and endlessly blather on about where it hurts, as if his injury isn’t sodding obvious to all.

She regards him with a certain displeasure as well, highly irregular in someone whose job is to care, but then she’s just as clearly incompetent as the rest of the staff around here, including the clumsy oaf who got him stuck in the Infirmary in the first place. She was probably a Gryffindor, considering the school is overrun with them and their sanctimonious morality (and Draco is very proud he knows what ‘sanctimonious’ means). Madam Pomfrey seems to think he is playing up his wound, which would be laughable if it wasn’t strictly true. Draco Malfoy has always had a somewhat casual relationship with the truth, which is to say it’s a lot like him and his Father; he prefers it not to affect him if he can avoid it, but he does recognise its power, and that sometimes it comes down on him with a force equal to that of any magic.

“Say ahh,” Madam Pomfrey says, and when he submits, she attempts to stick a damn thermometer down his throat so far he thinks she must be trying to remove his tonsils, and sinks into the pillows with a sour expression on his face.

“That Pucey boy was in here again for you,” she tells him, glancing at her watch as the thermometer takes its bloody time. “I sent him away, of course, everyone knows he’s trouble,” she adds with a sniff, and Draco starts to invent spells in his head just to torture her with. “I rather expect you heard what he did to Zacharias Smith last week.”

Yes, Draco heard, and hadn’t laughed so hard in weeks. Very few people could have even thought up such an elaborate scheme involving the use of whipped cream, two melons, and a house elf, all to be triggered by the eating of dessert one night, but then Adrian Pucey possesses a level of intelligence and animal cunning that makes Draco very glad to have him on his side. And besides, he’s fun to be around. Or would be, if Draco was allowed to be around him currently.

Madam Pomfrey finally removes the thermometer and checks his temperature and then proceeds to sniff at him, like he’s to blame for all his woes and a fucking hippogryff had nothing to do with it. If his Mother was there, she’d chastise him for his language (Narcissa Malfoy has always possessed the uncanny ability to know when he was swearing, even in his head – Adrian told him it was a thing all mothers could do, his included, whereas Pansy just looked scandalised at the very _idea_ her mother would need to chastise her for something as ribald as _cursing_ , and then giggled and swatted him on the shoulder and told Draco he was oh so daring for suggesting it), but then if his Mother was there, Madam Pomfrey would be getting the sharp edge of her tongue, and Draco would be watching gladly.

She measures out an odious smelling mixture from a vial and spoons it into his mouth, and Draco treats her to his most charming smile, which just leads to another disbelieving sniff.

Hufflepuff, Draco thinks. She must have been a Hufflepuff.

“Oh, Draco!” comes a squeal from the doorway, and all too soon Draco is besieged by Pansy and the others; Crabbe, Goyle and Millicent specifically. Immediately Pansy troops over with a ringing clatter of heels against the tiled floor, and proceeds to clutch him violently to her bosom, as if she actually had any. Goyle and Crabbe gather on either side, and Draco doesn’t want to look at them in case they fail to blink without orders. Millicent hovers anxiously at the foot of the bed, but then Draco figures she probably just couldn’t find a chair to pull up that would fit her, and even if that’s mean, it’s true, so there. “Oh, you poor, poor dear!” Pansy proclaims, and cradles him like a sick thing, like an infant, not being especially careful not to knock his damaged arm, and the subsequent yowl of pain does manage to get her attention.

“My darling Draco!” she exclaims, and holds him at arms’ length, and Draco winces as she examines him like a rag doll. “Where does it hurt? Is the nasty nurse not taking good care of you?”

Draco takes in a deep breath and grits his teeth. Millicent rolls her eyes at him, and he decides to get back at her for that later; he needs no sympathy, no comfort and no understanding from the likes of her. “It hurts where the blasted thing _clawed_ me, Pansy dear. The very same spot you just knocked.”

“Oh my!” Pansy’s fingers go up to twine a stray lock of hair back into her exquisitely groomed style, and only she would have bothered to freshen up before visiting the Infirmary. In times past, Draco would have considered it a compliment – if not a necessity, that those who were to come into his presence should be suitably presentable – but now he is tired and grumpy and he hurts and Pansy is no comfort at all. In two days of being stuck here he has learned to live without the little cadre of people whose sole existence is to demonstrate by their inferiority how much better he is, and he is beginning to see that he can do without them – after all, he _is_ better, or he wouldn’t have indulged such sorry souls in the first place.

“Did no-one else want to visit me?” Draco asks peevishly, and cranes his head towards the door. That causes a small exclamation of “Oh Draco you mustn’t!” from Pansy, and her carefully manicured hands have more power in them than he suspected, quickly pushing him back down onto the pillows with a wrench to his shoulders that makes his head spin. “You have to rest,” she tells him, leaning in, and she’s doused herself with so much perfume that Draco’s head does in fact reel from the oppressiveness of the scent.

Millicent appears to be hiding her laughter with a hand, Madam Pomfrey is looking distinctly amused, and when Draco glances over, neither Crabbe nor Goyle do appear to be blinking.

“Pansy,” he gets out, grabbing one of her hands with his good one, and looking imploringly up at her. “I know, and it’s very kind of you to visit. But I can probably rest better without all this fuss and bother.” He presses a kiss to the back of her palm; he’s watched his Father for years, and knows when to be romantic.

Pansy flushes a little, withdrawing her hand to fiddle idly at the collar of her blouse, and flares up in anger, the very model of a imperious queen. “You heard Draco!” she declares, and treats the other Slytherins to her most icy glare. “He wants you all out.” She smiles a little, and sinks into an empty chair. “He’d like some alone time with me.”

Draco stares up at the ceiling as they shuffle towards the door, one after another, and tries to count the cracks as Pansy’s words wash over him like a wave.

“…Of course, that horrid Pucey boy wanted me to carry a message, but I told him I was Pansy Parkinson, and I didn’t carry messages for anybody- well, apart from _you_ , Draco,” she adds with a girlish giggle that she probably thinks just adds to her appeal, shoulders shaking and ringlets of dark brown hair bouncing.

“Just a minute, Pansy,” he stops her, and she falls blessedly silent. “Pucey wanted to get a message to me?”

“Yes. It was probably something about the team, you know he’s obsessed, and gotten more so since you were so horribly injured. You boys and your toys,” she scolds him. “But as I said to him, if I wasn’t even going to run messages for Blaise, I was hardly about to do it for some snotty fourth year.”

“Pucey isn’t snotty,” Draco comments absently. “And Blaise only approaches you in the hope he can kiss you behind the Quidditch shed again.”

He doesn’t need to turn his head to see Pansy spluttering and flushed. “But Draco,” she protests, “I wouldn’t. I love only _you_.”

“If this is love, Pansy,” Draco declares tiredly, “then I’m never getting married.” He sighs, and cranes his neck as slowly as he can to look at her; the usual overwhelming (and incredibly false) concern has been replaced with something more reflective – it’s like looking at a different person, in a way. “Tell Adrian I want to see him.”

Pansy offers him a mocking smile, and spreads her skirt like a curtsey as she gets up off the chair. She’ll make him pay for this in future, and Draco begins to realise how much he has underestimated the sole daughter of the Parkinson family. “As you wish, Draco,” she says, and sounds even tired than he feels.

She leaves without looking back, and Draco settles back into the pillows.

In the morning he finds a note tucked into his bedsheets, and grins to himself before crumpling it up and tossing it aside.

_You were sleeping when I managed to sneak in, and waking you with a kiss would have just been far too predictable. (Besides, Draco, you just don’t look good in a corset.)_

_Get better! The team needs you._

_~A._

Draco gets better.

*

Communal showering is a necessity of dormitory life. It’s also a requirement of Quidditch training, but fortunately Draco doesn’t have to worry about that this year. Flint is gone, which is a relief; Flint who made anyone’s life hell if their gaze lingered just a little too longer than he thought appropriate in the showers, and of course chose to linger on everyone himself.

Draco has gotten rather good at schooling his gaze to the tile right in front of him; his name only protects him from so much innuendo, and creates about as much jealousy as the security it inspires. His housemates watch one another; for weakness, for advantage, for sheer gossip, and he rather suspects it’s not so much a Slytherin thing, or a great lack of human kindness, but simply teenagers being teenagers and people being people. Still, he doesn’t want anything getting back to his Father, so he tries to shower alone when he can and avoids temptation – not, it must be said, that most of his housemates are anything near tempting.

The school is buzzing with discussion about the Triwizard Tournament, but Draco has largely avoided it, turning churlish and surly at any mention of wonderful Potter (who clearly does stink) and how he’s managed in the two tasks thus far. Of course, he’s faced no real opposition, but that’s what happens when the competition ranges from a Hufflepuff to a French half-breed cow and some tacky Slav. Krum might be a brilliant Quidditch player – _is_ a brilliant Quidditch player – but well, there are just some things they’re not good at, aren’t there?

“Bloody foreigners,” Draco grumbles to himself, carefully stepping into the bathroom, towel thrown over a shoulder, toilet bag dangling from a finger, and just when his mood can’t get any worse, there’s someone whistling jauntily in the showers.

It’s not fair. People shouldn’t have the right to be happy when he isn’t. He’d make a rule against it if he could, but that is just one of the world’s many cruelties committed against him – his total incapacity to make everyone else snap to and obey him just like they should.

“Morning, Draco,” calls out Adrian Pucey, and Draco’s heart sinks for all the wrong reasons.

Draco is after all, fourteen – he’s developing in certain ways boys do; no, that makes him sound like he’s still a child. He’s _developed_ , past tense, and adolescence has brought with it all sorts of consequences, not the least of which are the frequent wet dream and tendency to get a hard on at all sorts of inappropriate times. Not that Draco has gotten aroused at an appropriate time yet, having never experienced an _appropriate_ time, not knowing what an _appropriate_ time is, exactly, and if he seems a little churlish over that uncomfortable fact, so be it. He plans to rectify the lapse at some point rather soon, if only so he can brag about it to Zabini, but he isn't entirely sure how to go about it, the apparent ease of Knockturn Alley brothels nonwithstanding.

“Morning, Pucey,” he murmurs back, and hangs up both toilet bag and towel, stepping buck naked onto the tile as he turns on the spray and takes a few moments to get it just right. There’s no-one else around, and a quick glance tells him that Adrian’s back is turned, so it’s not as if Pucey can tell and he’s there so Draco might as well steal the odd look. It’s just _Pucey_ , after all, and Draco knows he won’t mind.

Adrian Pucey has bloomed over the term; he is taller than he was, and boyish muscle has firmed into something more solid, although not bulky or stodgy – he still has the clean lines of a Chaser, and as Draco’s eyes trail down the curve of his spine, the small of his back, the shape of his calves, and back up to eye his arse, he recognises the limits of his vocabulary. To put it simply, Adrian Pucey is porn – not the kind of tacky, cheap porn that resides underneath Blaise’s bed – but something a little loftier and more exclusive, something deserving better than the back of a dingy shop in Knockturn Alley and a brown paper bag. Still, Draco is vaguely annoyed he hasn’t had a great deal of experience with any kind of pornography thus far besides the kind of hints and gossip that Zabini tells him; it would help him describe things.

Adrian shifts a little, rolling his shoulders as he reaches back to soap up what he can of his back, and for whatever reason he seems to be one of those people who are annoyingly naturally tanned in some way, unlike Draco who is far too pale and delicate and burns from any time out in the sun.

Draco knows he should stop looking, but then the suds run down the other boy’s spine in a way that just happens to draw his gaze, and he’s ogling Adrian Pucey in the Slytherin showers and it’s wrong and dirty and quite possibly going to land him some kind of hazing and he hates the word ogling but again his much vaunted vocabulary comes up with few alternatives, and besides, he’s too busy staring at Pucey’s arse. After all, ogling sounds so tawdry, and checking out is simply far too common – there needs to be a more elegant way of framing this, Draco thinks, and bites his lip as he imagines tracing the way the water falls down Adrian’s back with his tongue.

Adrian turns around, and he’s no fool, standing there in the shower two spaces over, hand circling around his cock as he pumps it lightly. “..It’s good to see you’re a man of taste, Draco,” he smirks, not too cocky, almost fond, and arches his neck a bit. “I was beginning to wonder if you were too busy chasing after Potter.”

“Jealous, are we?” Draco retorts, but his heart isn’t in it. Adrian is quite well hung, and that is an incredibly uncouth way of putting things, but there’s no way of getting around it.

“Not really,” Adrian shrugs, and walks towards him out of the spray, absently still stroking himself. “He’s not that bad looking, I guess.” His smirk deepens as he gets closer, and all of a sudden there are two people sharing Draco’s shower, and for all that the water is so very hot, Adrian’s body seems to be radiating an even greater amount of heat, and when he whispers against Draco’s ear, his breath seems steamier than the spray. “Not as handsome as I am, though.”

“…Is there anything that isn’t about your ego?” Draco demands to know, leaning away from him and glaring.

“You’re just annoyed you’ve met someone more arrogant than you, Malfoy,” Adrian quips, and only Pucey would dare to make such a joke. But then, Draco would only tolerate it from Pucey – for all that Adrian is one year older, he has always displayed an odd mix of wisdom and sheer immaturity, twinkle in his eye, spring in his step, and no bloody mind as to when to stop or give up half the time. Give Adrian Pucey a boundary and he will push it, and as Adrian’s hands fix on his hips to push Draco against the tile, one hand moving to gently tip his chin up so Adrian can examine his expression, Draco begins to realise that perhaps Draco himself is the final challenge for him to conquer.

“I really should make you ask for it,” Adrian tells him simply.

“You bastard,” Draco glares, and tries to squirm out of his grasp, but Adrian pushes him back against the wet tile, with an ease that makes Draco embarrassed, although truth be told, he isn’t trying very hard.

“But then, that wouldn’t be very fun for either of us,” Adrian continues, as if Draco never spoke, and reaches down to take Draco’s cock in his hand. He keeps his eyes focussed on Draco’s, and doesn’t waver when he drags his thumb across the tip of Draco’s cock, hazel eyes glinting darker, the green flecks growing stronger, watching as he drags a breathy sigh from Draco’s slack mouth. “And I think we both deserve some fun.”

“Oh, just shut up for once, why don’t you?” Draco grits his teeth and rolls his hips a little in frustration, clumsy and jerking.

Adrian just laughs as he strokes him off and leans in for a surprisingly sweet kiss, free hand cupping his head. It’s not Draco’s first kiss, but it’s certainly a lot more enjoyable than fooling around with Pansy Parkinson and fumbling at her blouse. That was awkward, and unpleasant – wet is the word that springs easily to mind. This is not especially heady, not all consuming; this is not the love of Draco’s life, he is not so stupid to think so, or even to wish it to be, but it’s incredibly arousing, and Adrian is very handsome, and charming, and Draco’s been infatuated with him since second year and it’s good to finally get something he wants.

That thought makes him giggle a little, and squirm all the more, and Adrian stops jerking him off with a curious expression and a raised eyebrow. “…You know, getting wanked by yours truly does not usually lead to laughter.”

“And yours truly having his wanking stopped when he wants it to continue usually leads to beatings, so keep going.”

Adrian snorts, eyes flashing with humour, and kisses Draco suddenly, deep and overpowering, tongue sliding between his lips to elicit yet another moan, and swallows every sound Draco makes until he spills himself over Adrian’s hand with a sigh.

“Now,” Adrian asks him, once Draco’s recovered his breath, “would Potter ever do that for you?”

Draco laughs and pushes him away. “Thanks to that image, I’ll never get hard again.” He yelps at the resulting slap he gets to his arse, and glowers back at a smirking Adrian, who is busy scratching the back of his neck.

“…We’ll see about that,” Adrian promises.

*

The Yule Ball in fourth year is a glittering occasion. Draco wears his best dress robes – not that he has anything substandard to choose from, at any rate, and dances the night away with Pansy, who looks at him throughout the night with a wry, knowing archness that nearly drives him insane until he gets her off the dancefloor and over to one side.

“I trust you’ve been enjoying yourself, dear,” he says, and sips at his drink. He isn’t especially thirsty, but one has to keep up appearances.

“Oh, of course, Draco,” Pansy replies. She’s grown up a lot in the past year; the girl she was has been revealed to be just a girl, and the woman she is rapidly becoming bears watching; she is dangerous. “Doesn’t everyone look gorgeous? Look, there’s Adrian dancing with that Ravenclaw, Marietta. They look lovely together, don’t they?”

Hardly subtle, considering Pansy barely says two words normally about Adrian except to slag him off, and certainly wouldn’t concern herself with the dating habits of Ravenclaws, but then they are Slytherins – subtlety belongs to other people, and older ages when they could afford it.

“I rather suppose he does,” Draco muses, grudgingly.

“If you want to spend time with him, I’ll understand.”

“Don’t play the martyr, Pansy, it doesn’t suit you.”

Pansy’s laugh is brittle. “I’m amazed you know what does and doesn’t suit me, Draco.”

“You don’t have to play games with me, Pansy. Not when it’s just us. I don’t want to be insulted like that.”

“I’m a Parkinson and you’re a Malfoy,” she says, quietly, more quietly than a fourteen year old should have to. “People _expect_ games.”

“I won’t be used,” Draco snarls, and reaches out to grab her wrist, pull her close to his ear. He curls his lips in a fond smile, and if anyone chose to watch, they would have seen the redoubtable Prince of Slytherin mouthing sweet nothings to his equally socially acceptable girlfriend. “Not by you. Not by anyone.”

“You won’t always get that choice, _darling_ ,” Pansy tells him in a voice that’s like steel, and pries his fingers off her wrist. She’ll bruise as a result, and remind him of the fact in days and years to come, and they both know it.

“Go off and find Zabini, why don’t you? He can tell you about all the women he’s felt up this year, and how you’re better than them all.” Draco’s voice drips scorn for the both of them.

“At least he’s willing to tell me that,” Pansy bristles, and flashes him a sharp, tight smile. “What has Pucey ever said to you?” She leaves that hanging in the air she swans off through the crowd.

Pansy Parkinson may have been his date, but later, in the still of evening, it’s Adrian Pucey who finds him in the gardens, holds him in his arms under the guise of night and kisses him until he’s breathless and begging and to be perfectly honest, Draco prefers it that way.

Adrian’s fingers creep under his robes, and start to tickle, because only Adrian Pucey could decide that tickling is an appropriate way to spend a make-out session.

“Don’t!” Draco yells out, and quickly gets a hand over his mouth for his trouble.

“I’ll gag you, if you don’t be quiet,” Adrian tells him, and even his warnings are mocking, delivered with a smug smirk and a waggling finger. Draco nips at Adrian’s hand in response simply because he can.

“I’m ticklish, you churlish oaf!” he snarls quietly when he wrenches his mouth free.

“All the more reason to tickle you,” Adrian tells him, like it’s some kind of universal truth, and lets him go. “Right then. You get a head start.”

“A head start?”

“If you can stop me from catching you, you don’t get tickled.” Adrian slaps him on the arse gently, and gives him a little shove off.

For all that Draco appreciates Adrian’s capacity to take joy in almost everything he does – and he knows there’s a French phrase for it, which his Mother would know and his Father would strongly object to her using on the grounds that it was foreign and Malfoys speaks English thank you very much – careening around the Hogwarts grounds sometime after midnight is not exactly Draco’s idea of fun. Still, he goes along with it as Adrian is not about to be budged, and soon enough he’s laughing and running and hiding and doing his best not to be caught; they are just boys, and it’s enough for one night.

*

“I’m a member of the Inquisitorial Squad,” Draco tells Adrian proudly, and waits for the congratulations.

“Good for you,” Adrian mutters, and doesn’t look up from his book. They are in the Library, and Adrian might be working towards his NEWTs, but that’s no reason to be anything less than completely and utterly enthused.

“Hmph,” Draco sniffs, and reaches across to close the book, and pull it away from Adrian.

“Hey! I was studying that,” Adrian protests.

“Well, you can keep studying it after you’ve given me your proper attention.”

Adrian turns surly, and places his hands behind his head, leaning back in his chair. He does like to play the rebel on occasion, and it’s somewhat unbecoming – he can’t even look cute when he pouts. “It’s just another badge, Draco,” he tells him, and he’s serious, which makes the dismissal all the worse.

“Another badge? This is power, Adrian, _power_ ,” Draco leans across the table to look into his eyes, potent and in love with his own potency. “I can take off points, I can give detention, I can do all sorts of things – Umbridge is allowing the Squad to do things no Prefect has ever been able to do.”

“How wonderful.” Adrian says flatly.

“Are you jealous?” asks Draco, incredulous. “If you want, I can get Umbridge to get you a place on the Squad, I’m sure-“

“That’s not it.”

“Then what?”

“All this year I’ve heard about how you’re a Prefect. About how you’re making Weasley’s life hell, and Potter’s too. Now this. I expect you’re going to tell me how you’re going to use it to get back at Potter as well?”

Draco looks at him as if he’s speaking another language. “Of course. Why _wouldn’t_ I use it?”

“For fuck’s sake, Draco, get yourself a different hobby. You don’t need to show off, or prove yourself, not to me, and not to anyone. You’re more than just a badge, if you'd care to bother to find out.” Adrian grabs his book and pushes himself from the table. “Now, some of us have to study cause we’re not as clever as your good self.”

He saunters through the stacks of books with his head held high, just as graceful as ever, but there’s a stiffness in his shoulders that seems to block Draco out, and his head is just a little too high and too proud. Draco is left behind in confusion, and doesn’t know what he’s done wrong – although that’s not so very uncommon.

That night he finds Pansy and Blaise curled up together in one of the corridors after curfew, half of Pansy’s buttons undone, one of Blaise’s hands down her blouse and the other up her skirt. He docks them both five points, because he can, and won’t listen to their protests.

It doesn’t make him feel better.

*

Draco oozes. He oozes and plots bloody murder against the whole world. Wriggling just seems to increase the sensation of something wet and unpleasant permeating his robes, and his face is too swollen to make any kind of coherent sound, mouth flabby and listless. His eyelids are swelled shut, encrusted with something horrid, and so he has been struck blind as well as dumb. He can hear, though. He can hear their laughter and complete lack of concern, and it just makes him burn hotter, that they find him to be so little a threat.

He’ll show them. He’ll show all of them. He just doesn’t know how, but he can wait and wait and wait and bide his time.

He knows that Potter did this, Potter and two of his pet Hufflepuffs, and he hates Hufflepuffs. But it was Potter’s fault, Potter’s hands that helped hoist them, Potter’s mind that lead them and Potter who taught them the jinxes in the first place. Potter who stole his Father; Potter who stole his pride; Potter, Potter, Potter.

Somewhere in the vicinity are Crabbe and Goyle, and if they ever outstayed their welcome this would be the time. Utterly useless, and next year Draco will be sure to utilise them in a manner more appropriate to their skills, and trust to himself to take care of the important things: that is, his own safety.

He can do nothing except hate, and so he waits there, impotent and alone.

He continues to ooze.

“Easy does it,” murmurs someone soothingly, and Draco can feel himself be lowered gently and carefully down onto the carpet. He wriggles like some kind of beached whale, and hears muttered strings of Latin course over him. With time, he slowly cleans up; he can feel the muck evaporate from his clothes and hair, and the swelling lessen. He can speak before he can see, mouth feeling dry and clumsy when he tries to form words.

“What?” he says, and his tongue seems to be made of taffy for all the coherency of his syllables. “Who?”

“Take your time,” comes the voice again, and Draco recognises it, although he’d rather not, as Adrian hauls him into a sitting position, sort of settling Draco against him on the floor.

“Don’t want to take my time,” Draco tries to snarl, and it’s probably all coming out horribly wrong. Even his arms and legs are unsteady, fluid, so when he pushes himself up off of Pucey he falls against the compartment seat and can barely ward the contact with his arms. “Want to get after them.”

“There’s too many, for one thing,” Adrian tells him, tiredly. “And you’re in no condition to fight, Draco.”

Draco turns on his back with a sudden savage twist of his body, arms jerking impotently by his sides and legs spasming, but he can lie there and glare and it’s enough to begin with. “Should have expected you’d be a coward, Pucey,” he spits, and watches as something hard and hurt comes over Adrian’s face.

“Fuck you then, Draco,” Adrian tells him, and stands to leave the compartment and close the door behind him.

Draco balls in his rage for a few moments before he releases it, shaking his head and exhaling deeply. “I never wanted you to see me like that,” he says to the compartment door, and knows his voice is shaky. He speaks because Adrian has left, and it can’t be heard. He wriggles a little more, and almost slides onto the floor for his trouble. “Not this fucking _useless_.” His voice trembles again. "Not in front of you."

It takes all the ride home for Draco to regain his co-ordination, and he doesn’t bother to salvage Crabbe or Goyle – it’s their own fault, anyway.

*

When Draco Malfoy arrives back at Hogwarts in sixth year, he does with his head unbowed and a hollow heart. Then Adrian slaps him on the arse, and Draco can’t help but smile a little. Neither of them will apologise, so neither of them have to, and although they are a little older, a little wiser and a little sadder, for the moment they can pretend.

“Why are you walking around like you’ve got a broom up your arse?” asks Adrian, after telling Draco an extremely detailed (and largely unbelievable) account of his holiday exploits.

Draco considers it for a second, and tells him what he did to Potter as they make their way through the halls of Hogwarts, clambering up stairs to the Great Hall, and Adrian falls silent.

“…You know, I worry when you finally shut up. Being pensive doesn’t suit you.”

That earns him a squeeze to the shoulder and a soft shake. “I’m glad to see you finally got over that obsession of yours, Draco. It was beginning to cramp your style.”

Draco sighs. “I’ve got larger things to worry about now,” he declares as they enter the Great Hall, and makes himself smile and wave back as Pansy waves him over to the Slytherin table and the usual suspects.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” Adrian promises, and they go their separate ways. Draco watches him up the table, joking with the rest of the seventh years, and tries to keep up with the steady flow of gossip Pansy pours in his ear, but his heart isn’t in it. His heart doesn’t seem to quite be in anything for the moment; he’s no longer who he always thought he was, and isn’t sure what he’s to do now, except complete his mission.

He catches Adrian’s eyes at one point, and almost flinches from the emotion there: it makes him wonder if he could ever be anything more.

*

Things are getting interesting. For interesting, read desperate. Draco is not stupid, after all; he knows his father (lower case thankyou, no mental capitalisation necessary, as his father has failed and fallen and shall not be mentioned again) has caused the Dark Lord immense displeasure, and this is his chance to redeem the Malfoys. The task he has been set is a difficult one; many would view it as impossible, but Draco does not. He knows the moment he considers it impossible he sets both heart and mind against his success, and as long as he thinks he can do it, well, he probably can. Or at least he can keep trying, and trying, and trying – and if all his attempts so far have come to naught, he’s a resourceful young man and he can keep thinking up alternatives.

He has to; the last few orders he has received have been disturbing in their terseness. It is not that he doesn’t wish to complete his mission – he does, of course he does. He hungers for it, for the righteousness of his cause and the capacity to prove himself in all his glory. Now for victory, now for triumph, now for the world to see exactly how brilliant Draco Malfoy is and always has been, but things are a little more difficult than he thought they would be.

The Dark Lord is not exactly the most understanding of leaders, however, and Draco works harder, pushes himself further, shuts himself away from others, from respite, from comfort of almost any kind. He purifies himself through the work he does, through his own desperation, goes without sleep or food or even Quidditch because the Dark Lord is quite blunt, and his Aunt is quite insane, and his mother is his mother and he loves her more than anything.

A threat is a threat is a threat, and Draco curses his bad luck and throws his wand at the damn Vanishing Cabinet when it refuses to work properly for the umpteenth time in a row. The wand bounces off the useless thing and falls with a clatter on the harsh stone surface of the Room of Requirement, rolling a little way off into the darkness. Draco isn’t sure exactly what subconscious impulse created this room of stone and shadow, and doesn’t really want to know either, but it suits his purposes for the moment.

He’s tired, and grumpy, and hungry, and although he usually doesn’t know when to stop, he’s not doing any good by staying, so he finds his wand and tucks it away and leaves in a bad humour.

“You know, you should keep a better eye on things,” Adrian tells him, coming out of the nearest passageway to match him stride for stride as they walk back to the dorm.

“Oh, what _now_?”

“Potter keeps circling round the place like the neighbourhood stalker.”

“Oh, wonderful. Just what I need.” Draco sighs, and rubs at his temple; he feels a headache coming on. “Crabbe and Goyle should have let me know. Where are they?”

“The two girls with the odd body language? They disappeared off to the kitchens a half hour ago.”

Draco swears. Adrian looks at him, because Draco is usually far too well mannered to swear.

“You don’t have to worry about Potter, you know.”

“I’m not,” Draco snarls. “He’s not a threat to me. I can deal with Potter if need be.”

“Don’t turn this into a pissing contest, please, Draco.”

“Mind your own business.”

“You _are_ my business.”

“Oh yes?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Adrian snaps, and bunches a hand in Draco’s robes to push him against the nearest wall and kiss him possessively for the first time in months, and Draco just melts.

“…Adrian.” There’s just a hint of a whine in Draco’s voice, but he knows not to start anything. He closes his eyes and straightens his robes.

“Don’t start, Draco. How long’s it been since you slept? Or ate properly?”

“I don’t know. I have things to do.”

“Yes, a grand and glorious mission. Which you won’t complete in this state. Everyone’s worried about you.”

Draco snorts. “Everyone wants to see me fail.”

Adrian smiles and runs a finger along Draco’s jaw. “That too. Pansy’s just about bitten her nails to the quick.”

“She’s allied herself too closely to me over the years. If I fall, I take her with me, and she knows it.” The practical aspect of pureblood politics is strangely comforting, even if it leaves Draco cold: at least he always knows where he stands with Pansy Parkinson. Adrian Pucey is a far more troublesome creature to define, which is probably why he likes him so much.

“You’re coming to dinner with me. And then I’m making sure you get a proper night’s sleep.” Adrian tells him, and Draco sighs heavily, because Adrian just won’t let it go.

“…You’re only doing this because you’re jealous of how much prettier I am.”

“You wish, Malfoy.”

“Promise to wake me with a kiss in the morning?” Draco asks him as they start walking back again, and Adrian ruffles his hair, just like he used to.

“This isn’t a fairy tale, Draco,” he says softly, and Draco smiles in return.

“I know.”

*

They fuck in the morning. Draco isn’t sure if that was the reason Adrian hauled him out of bed and into the showers (and thinks it probably is) but he’s not about to complain. It’s Draco’s first time (with a boy), and Adrian’s expertise seems to make up for his lack thereof, from the way he slides his fingers into Draco’s mouth with a smirk and tells him to suck, turns him against the tile, stomach pressed to the wall, and slowly opens him up.

The stretching sensation burns with a steady rasp that only intensifies when it’s Adrian’s cock buried in him, and Draco gasps and bucks and moans all breathy and flustered at each and every thrust. It’s not something he thinks he’ll get used to, and he doesn’t really want to – it might hurt, but it’s the good kind of hurt, and when he tells Adrian how full he feels with a voice heady with wonder, Adrian kisses the back of his neck gently and thrusts in that little bit deeper before biting on his ear lobe. “Good boy,” he murmurs, nuzzling against his hair, and holds Draco gently in his arms as he thrusts in and out with a steady rhythm.

“You don’t wish this was Potter, do you?” Adrian teases, and nips at the side of his neck, just where Draco is most ticklish, and Draco squeals against him as Adrian’s elegant fingers begin to ghost over his chest.

“No, Merlin no, don’t say that or you’ll just turn me off, I swear!” he babbles out, and arches away and into and from him, anything so long as he stops the torture.

“Not Weasley either?”

“What are you, mad?” demands Draco, as the suggestion is even more insulting than Potter. “I just wanted to beat them, honest, beat them and best them and show Potter he couldn’t just _reject_ me-“

“Ah, so this is all about you and rejection,” Adrian smirks, and slides in slow and deep, making Draco’s entire body shudder. “I should have known.”

“ _Fuck_. How can you _do_ that and _talk_?”

“Practice,” Adrian tells him firmly, and begins to speed up, the showers filling with steam and the slap of skin against skin.

Draco comes with a low moan a few moments later, Adrian’s fingers pinching at his nipples, Adrian’s voice whispering all kinds of filthy suggestions in his ear, and Adrian just keeps on riding him, arched against the wall until Draco is hard again.

“Mine,” Adrian tells him simply, and bites on his shoulder as he finally comes, and Draco cries out and sprays his seed across the wall.

They stay like that for a while; time itself seems to stop amongst the steam and the heat and the afterglow, and Adrian’s arms are the world. He pants against Draco’s neck like that very same satisfied dog, and pulls out with a grunt. Draco aches, and he’ll ache for the rest of the day, but it’s worth it.

“ _Mine_ ,” Adrian tells him again, a curious emotion in his eyes that Draco doesn’t want to define in case it leads him to wanting things he probably shouldn’t, and just before he’s about to damn himself and ask, Adrian leans in to kiss him deep and hungry, and cup his arse, pressing their bodies together. “No matter what tattoo you get.”

“ _Adrian-_ “ Draco begins, but Adrian hushes him with a finger against his lips.

“You’re worth more than a bloody mission, love,” he tells him, and steps back out of the shower to grab his towel and dry himself off, wrapping it round his shoulders when he’s done and halfway dressed. “ _Do_ try and remember it.”

*

That night, Draco takes a great sigh and stares at the Vanishing Cabinet. He is aching (in both the good and the bad way), he is tired, he is grumpy. He could barely eat during dinner for worrying, and he knows his time is running out.

He closes his eyes and concentrates. Framing the spell in his mind first, he then gives voice to it, phrases in Latin and Greek and Old Welsh curling one around another, and forming a tight magical equation with everything balanced, or so he hopes. A slender blue wisp emerges from the tip of his wand, and wraps itself round the Cabinet as his chant continues, and he’s not so showy as to need to build it in pitch or scream or anything especially theatrical. It will either work, or it won’t, and if it doesn’t he’ll deal with that tomorrow.

The aura surrounds the Cabinet and sinks into the wood, fading from sight. There is silence, and Draco sags at the prospect of another failure. Then, all of a sudden, there is a crack, and a thud; the Cabinet flashes a brilliant blue on the outside, and white light shines from the cracks for just a second.

Draco pulls himself up, and straightens; the weariness seems to fall away from him as he straightens his robes, and even the gnawing hunger can be endured, now he has succeeded. Anything is possible.

He tests it. It works.

His mission is over. Now for victory; now for triumph; all he needs is to give the word. Odd. He always thought he’d be happier when this point came, but he’s not the boy he used to be, and he understands better what kind of boy he was.

Draco Malfoy sinks down onto the hard stone floor, crosses his legs, and thinks about what he’s worth.  



End file.
